Only In America
by ReitaLOVE818
Summary: Somehow, the US has lost control of his life. He's let himself go, lost his friends, and is flat broke. He must now figure out how to save himself and restore himself to his former glory.
1. Chapter 1

The automated doors slid open. In waddled a middle-aged man, about five foot ten. He was balding, but remnants of blond hair sat in a halo around the edge of his head, and a comb-over was failing to hide any of it. He stopped just inside the entry way, his hands resting on his thighs as he bent forward, panting, wheezing, trying as hard as he could to catch his breath.

The greeter standing near to him cracked a false smile and groaned, "Welcome to Hero-Mart." He wasn't even trying to be friendly, and the only thing that the balding man noticed about the greeter was his exceptionally large eyebrows.

"Yeah, whatever," the man mumbled as he pushed up his wire-rimmed glasses and began shuffling through the store. He didn't want to talk to that loser guy anyway. In the back of his mind he wondered if she should have grabbed one of those awesome amigo carts to ride through the store in. Really, he loved Hero-Mart, but it was just so big, and he had trouble navigating it in this shape.

This shape. What was this shape, anyway? How had he gotten like this? Not wanting to think about it, he blinked his blue eyes, making a slow, uneasy turn down aisle three. He was already feeling short of breath again, but he was almost to those salty, delicious chips!

People were giving him odd glances, but he didn't care. His flabby arm reached out and in one swipe he had three bags of wavy Barbecue chips. _There's nothing more American than the taste of barbecue!_ He continued to make his way, heading now for aisle seven. There was no way he was going to eat these without something to wash it down with. It took him a while, and he was huffing and making small grunting noises once he reached the assortment of sodas. There were so many flavors to choose from, but nothing was more classic, more American than cola. Then, as he was reaching for that twenty four pack of cans, he remembered what his doctor had said about dieting. To level it out, he instead got Diet cola. That would surely even things out, right?

Luckily, someone had abandoned their cart mid-aisle and he snatched it, filling the cart with cookies, candy, chips, soda, ice cream, and frozen dinners. Once finished, he went to register nine, where a young Japanese-American was ready to assist him.

"Hello, and how are you on this wonderful day, sir?"

"Oh, this store is so goddamn big!" Alfred F. Jones was too busy trying to catch his breath to say much else. He started absent-mindedly loading up the conveyor belt at the register, moving at a snail's pace because he simply couldn't move like he used to.

The cashier, whose nametag said "Honda", wasn't sure what to say to that exclamation. He smiled quietly and began to scan items. He didn't let his face show it, but he was upset that he didn't have a bagger today, which meant it would take a while to complete this transaction. Not wanting to miss anything once he had finished scanning and bagging, he asked, "Do you have any coupons, bottle return receipts, or anything of the like?"

"No." He knew he'd forgotten to bring something…now he'd have even more cans and bottles piling up at home. All well. In all of his sweaty, massive, American glory, he coughed and pulled out his wallet, sliding his credit card. After it was approved, he stuck it back in his wallet. He knew he was nearing the limit on his last credit card, but there was nothing he could do. He was in debt up to his freaking eyeballs.

It seemed so unfair to him that everyone else seemed to think he owed them, when really it was the other way around. He was, after all, the hero.

"Thank you, sir, and have a great day!"

Alfred shook his head. _That guy is just way too formal. He needs to get drunk and loosen up a little._

The greeter just scowled at him and his giant cart of groceries as he walked out of the doors marked 'entrance' and into the parking lot.

It was quite a meander to his parking spot, and he couldn't even remember where it was. Scratching the top of his balding head, he hit the car locator button, and his giant SUV beeped once, the lights flashing on for a moment so he could find it. "There it is!"

Ignoring the looks and giggles from people passing by in the parking lot, the middle-aged man put his groceries in the back and climbed into his car, cussing when his door had scraped the car next to him. "Oops." He didn't even bother to leave insurance information.

On the drive home, he was feeling awfully hungry from all of that hard work, and a burger sounded really, really good. Pulling into "Burger Street: Grill & Café", the American went through the drive-thru, getting an extra-large number four, deluxe with olives, bacon, and extra cheese. He got a large chocolate shake and ketchup for his fries. When he got home he left most of the stuff in the car, whatever didn't need to be refrigerated, and got to eating his dinner…alone. It was just him. Everyone was mad at him, including his brother Matthew.

Looking at his receipt for Hero-Mart, he scoffed at the extra twenty cents he was charged for that king size chocolate bar. "That was supposed to be on sale!" He wailed, his mouth sputtering bits of burger in rage. He was feeling too tired to get his phone and call them to complain, let alone drive back out there, so he decided he would tell them next time. To take his mind off of it all, he settled into his couch, flicking on the television set. A movie marathon would make everything okay; it had always seemed to…

A couple of days later, the postman was making his rounds. He went to open Alfred's mailbox, but he became concerned to see that it was full of mail still. Even though the American didn't walk much, he at least got the mail every day…probably for the fast food coupons. With a gentle rapping of his knuckles, the postman had to check to make sure the American was okay…it was his duty, right?

"Mon cher, are you home?" There was a strong possibility that Alfred had gone on vacation, mayhaps. "Monsieur…" He looked at the mail in his hands, "Jones, there is mail here with your name on it!" For a moment there was silence, but then he heard it. It sounded like a whimper. The postman checked under the rug and sure enough there was a spare key, so he opened the door, shouting, "It's just me, and I'm checking to see if you're okay, okay?" A loud moan could be heard. Brushing some of his curly hair out of his face, the postman bounded up the stairs. He found Alfred on the floor in the hallway, flat on his back.

"Jacques Bleu, monsieur! How long have you been here?"

"I don't know. I can't get up and I was here for a long time, and then I fell asleep. Then I woke up…" How embarrassing. There was only so much neediness and embarrassment one man could stand. He certainly couldn't keep living like this. It was horrible. What even started it?

The postman found a solid chair and between it, Alfred's efforts, and his efforts, they got him to a sitting position. "I can handle myself from here, dude. Thanks."

"No problem. I'll leave your mail on the table downstairs."

Alfred felt a small quivering in his chest. At first he thought it might have been the onset of heartburn or the warning signs of a heart attack, but as the postman walked out the front door he realized what it was- he was lonely. He didn't want the other man to leave. But everyone always left. He was stupid, loud, fat, obnoxious, messy, and not at all awesome like he used to be. He was no longer a hero, just the shell of a man. The very large shell of his former self.

After he got through the hassle of getting downstairs, Alfred called his local gym. He'd lost his gym card a few years ago and decided it was high time he rejoined. His first appointment was set for Monday.


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred made sure he had his keys, his wallet, the gym bag he'd packed. He had to completely _cover_ himself in deodorant, making sure to get underneath the folds of fat and skin. He'd also bought the biggest athletic clothes he could find…which were, to no surprise, available at Hero-Mart. As he climbed into his SUV, he readjusted his stomach- the fat was always squishing up against the steering wheel, even with the seat pushed all the way back- and he closed the door, turning the key into the ignition.

There was already a lot of shakiness, nervousness, and nausea. He considered not going at all, but decided against it. This was, after all, for his well-being. He couldn't possibly continue on like this. To help him cope with the fear, he popped in a CD. It was a mix CD that included patriotic classic rock songs from John Cougar Melloncamp, Sammy Hagar, Bruce Springsteen, Don McLean and even "Don't Tread On Me" by Metallica. His sausage-fingers tapped against the wheel as he was driving. _Please let today run smoothly. I know it's gonna be hard, but I'm tough as nails! Yeah! _

He pulled into the drive of "Fett Nicht Mehr", using the closest spot available to the door. Wobbling in, he reached the front counter, his face red from the embarrassment of even being seen here. There were perfectly great-looking people using exercise equipment all over the mega-sized facility. He thought he'd be greeted by some tacky, waif of a female secretary, but the head fitness coach stopped barking at a man on a treadmill to move faster and jogged over to the American.

"Wilkommen to Fett Nicht Mehr! You can call me Ludwig, ja? I'm the Fitness coach around here. The place is run by me and my Nutrition Specialist, who"-

"Who is right here!" Out from nowhere came a very thin, bouncy-looking man with the smile of a serial killer. "Is this the new arrival? Oh, he's a fat on"-

Ludwig turned on his heels. "Gilbert! What did I say to you about insulting our clients!"

"What? It's worked for everyone else here. Look how thin they are now!" He pointed to the people on the equipment. "My awesome motivational skills have worked wonders on these people. Like see that chick there on the elliptical? She used to be HUGE." His eyes grew wide with mock fascination as he said it.

Alfred suddenly wasn't feeling so sure about this place. It seemed strange, but then he had been told it was a new facility, just opened two or three years ago. The ad he'd seen in the phone book looked great. He was just afraid of failing. Taking a deep breath, he looked around. "So, what first?"

First, Ludwig made special care to make Alfred sign all of the proper documents and pay for his membership. The first six months were at half-rate if paid in advance, so it was a mere one hundred fifty bucks to start. Once that was squared away, the fitness instructor faced Gilbert. "I'll call you back over when you're needed. Go back to…whatever it was you were doing."

The slimmer man saluted. "Ja, herr!"

Rollling his eyes, Ludwig pulled out a tape measure, snapping it with a grin. "First I will measure you, perform a water displacement test, and have you to some strength, flexibility, and speed exercises. We need to figure out a starting point for your training. Now…stand up straight, lift your arms."

Alfred felt like this was a bit of trouble to go through, but the German barked at him. "Lift those arms higher!" The American complied quickly.

"Okay, okay…let's see. Waist…53 and one half inches. This with your height alone tells me where to class you. We have a lot of work to do."

"Class me?"

"Ja. Something tells me you can handle hearing it. You are suffering from class III obesity. It means that more than half of your weight is fat." Silently, he continued measuring Alfred, letting the shock set in.

The American's face was pale. More than half of what he was carrying around was fat? That couldn't be right, could it? He was beginning to wonder if this place were more adverse to his health if anything. He felt like he could have had a heart attack.

"What is the ideal waist measurement for my height then?"

"Well, it varies some from person to person. No two bodies are exactly the same, but I would say 27-35 inches is ideal, depending on if you have a slim or muscular build. I can't yet see the frame underneath, so let's just focus on getting those first 3 and one half inches off of you, okay?" His face actually softened for a moment from its usual rigid expression. Ludwig didn't train others because he was a control freak, but rather because he loved it when people made progress, when they could see the bodies they'd been hiding all along…their true selves. Ludwig, to put it bluntly, secretly loved making other people happy, and this was the best way he knew how.

Next, Alfred was brought to the water displacement tank. Depending on how much the water in the tank rises with him in it, his body fat percentage could be calculated. The results were astounding, to say the least. Flicking his pen so that the end popped in and out, Ludwig sighed. "You are doing the right thing by being here. Right now, your body is in very poor shape. When the body carries this much excess weight, the risks of diabetes, heart failure, weak liver function, and death are very high. But do not fret, we can fix that. I might be a little harsh on you in our training, but it's for the best, ja?"

The American wondered how harsh that could possibly be, and nodded his understanding. Alfred failed to measure up in many other tests too, and when he was asked to run as far as he possible could without being short of breath, he couldn't even run fifty meters without being out of breath and whining about knee pain. This was going to be difficult, indeed.

The German whistled, and in scampered Gilbert. "What is it, bro?"

"Bro?"

"Ja, Gilbert is my younger brother. Couldn't you tell?"

Alfred shook his head. "No." The American was already tired, and was really really craving those twinkies he had back at home.

"Okay, listen here fats"-

"His name is Alfred."

"Oh, right. Alfred 'Fatso' Jones… I am going to ask you some questions about what you eat, make some crude remarks, then figure out what the hell you should be eating from now on. If it's too strict, too bad- you'll have to suck it up."

_How blunt and straightforward can this guy possibly get? _

"Okay. Typical day. What do you eat? Tell me EVERYTHING. I'll know if you're lying. Go."

"Let's see…" Usually Alfred just ate whatever whenever and didn't pay much attention to what it was. "I had some eggs and bacon with biscuits and gravy, orange juice, two cinnamon rolls, and some milk for breakfast. Lunch was a salami sub from Super Sub…with bacon, provolone, extra cheese, some kind of sauce…and a bag of chips…I had a large soda with that. Dinner was…spaghetti with meatballs and sauce, garlic bread, more soda. What were my snacks? Two candy bars, king size, more chips, probably about five or six oreos with chocolate milk…That might be it? I think…"

The Prussian's eyes were wide with shock. "I think that's more calories than I eat in a week. Rough calculation says…" He tapped in numbers wildly. "Okay, over-exaggeration a bit. But I think you could eat half that and not even miss it. Are you an emotional eater? You know…do you get a little emo and try to distract yourself by eating?"

"Sometimes I do." Alfred sighed. "Everyone used to depend on me and I was so cool. Now I'm nobody, and when I remember that, it seems like a good old burger, the testament to my youth, is the only thing that makes me feel happy again."

"Well duh, now wonder you've ballooned, fatty. You need to find a healthier outlet for your eating! I recommend exercise, but if you are bored and already worked out that day, find some other hobby. Invent a hobby if you have to, as long as it doesn't involve making you even bigger. Got it?"

Alfred nodded his head. He couldn't really think of anything he wanted to do at the moment, but maybe he could come up with something.

By the time he had arrived home with written instructions for his new meal plan and a card that had his next appointment date written on it, he was dog tired. He barely made his way through the door before the thought of a nap crossed his mind, but then he noticed that his phone's receiver was lighting up. Someone had called him and left a message. Believing at first that it was probably a telemarketer, he stood there for a moment, debating whether or not to hit the 'play' button. Curiosity overrode him now, and when he heard the voice on the recording, he was glad it had…


End file.
